


a fic wherein Sherlock and John are in hospital and are massive bros and it’s obvious that I know nothing about medicine and anyway family is all that we have in the end

by mighty-worm (wyrm_n_sigun)



Series: Bromance Capital of the UK [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Convalescence, Family, Gen, Hospitals, Hugs, Injury, Mild Fluff, Mrs Hudson worries about her boys and said boys are idiots, Non-Graphic Violence, The Illustrious Client, these tags are like whiplash it's back and forth between happies and blood, yes those are a part of the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrm_n_sigun/pseuds/mighty-worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'We missed you,' Mrs Hudson cooed into John’s hair, which she curiously hadn’t ruffled; she settled for massaging his back with warm palms. 'Sherlock here was worrying himself to death about you.'</p><p>'I was not!' Sherlock sounded so thoroughly infantile that his voice jumped an octave on the last syllable. He frowned at it."</p><p> </p><p>This one still has its <a href="http://sigtryggr.tumblr.com/post/17490112938/a-fic-wherein-sherlock-and-john-are-in-hospital-and-are">original title</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fic wherein Sherlock and John are in hospital and are massive bros and it’s obvious that I know nothing about medicine and anyway family is all that we have in the end

Lettice Barrett was just finishing her shift at the A&E when, without warning and with a great deal of noise, a man burst through the outer door. He was short, and panting; he carried the limp form of a much taller man, and there was blood caked all over both of them, dripping off the carried's dark coat and splattered across the carrier's ashen face. A troop of nurses and orderlies rushed forward to meet them, to take the unconscious man and deposit him on a gurney. Lettice found herself cradling his head, its hair dark and tousled and damp with sweat, as his legs were lowered carefully; his ankle looked broken, someone had noticed, and there was a dark wound on one thigh that needed immediate care. Doctor Cecil pushed through to the patient, already barking orders at some and telling others to disperse. As the gurney was pulled away, Lettice hung behind; she found herself next to the short man who'd brought the patient in and had been completely ignored up until now. She turned to him, and opened her mouth to ask him if he needed medical attention, too: his face was far too colourless for her comfort and he seemed unsteady on his legs.

No sooner had she gotten her first word out than his water-weak legs buckled beneath him; he collapsed, limbs sapped of all the energy it took him to carry his injured friend. He was on his face on the floor before Lettice had a chance to catch him. 

She screamed for another gurney. A six-inch knife hilt was protruding from his lower back.

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

The next day, Lettice inquired after the two strange patients from A&E how were they, who were they, what had happened to them? She was told that they both seemed to be recovering well enough after surgery, though neither had yet woken. As to who they were, no-one knew: neither had had any identification on him, or even so much as a mobile. All that anyone in the hospital knew was that they'd apparently both been in a fight: one sustaining a broken ankle, two broken and one fractured ribs, a glancing puncture wound to the leg, severe bruising around the neck due to strangulation, and an incredible amount of bruises and lacerations; the other sustaining multiple blows to the head, extreme exhaustion, and a deep knife wound that had the good fortune of sliding between his right kidney and pancreas, piercing neither organ. 

The two men were complete mysteries; the only thing serving to identify either was a curious, radial scar on the knifed one's shoulder. They had hoped it would prove useful in identification, but the results were disappointing, and the calls they'd put through to the police and the missing persons registry hadn't yielded anything. 

Lettice wondered if they were criminals, out on the run. It seemed plausible. They must be very selfless criminals, though, for the knifed man to have carried his strangled comrade all the way to hospital like that. Lettice didn't doubt that they were comrades; after all, she'd seen the look in the knifed one's eyes before he'd crumpled: fear, and boundless loyalty. 

Maybe that made them like Robin Hood and Little John, she wondered.

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock's head felt fit to explode. Maybe it'd not hurt as much if he let it do so. Probably wouldn't hurt at all; he couldn't imagine any reason to stop it from going, and yet he knew dimly that it still wasn't a good idea. He couldn't remember why, but he heard John's laughter, wafting through his imagination like sweet smoke and extremely potent hospital drugs. If John thought it was a stupid idea, then it most certainly was. 

He opened his eyes. "John", he tried to say, but his jaw wasn't working properly, and he couldn't completely feel his lips. He tried again: "John", and now it came out of him, though it was horribly raspy and he'd dropped a syllable somewhere. What'd he done with it, anyway? He couldn't just start leaving syllables lying around; Mrs Hudson'd get upset, like she had about the socks ( _but it was an experiment!_ ). Oh, bugger it, she'd get over it. He sat up.

And regretted it immediately. 

He fell back to the bed, his head suddenly pounding and his sense of gravity completely skewed. He felt himself cry out. At least he'd accomplished something: the pain had cut clear through his murky senses, and at last he could think, and knew where he was.

Hospital, sometime after midnight. A nurse in the hall outside had heard him and was hurrying to his door. Sherlock's foot was in a cast, and his ribs were taped up. IV in his arm. He tried to sit up again, suddenly shot through with desperation in the empty room for no reason he could quantify. His head spun, and he began to cant to one side; he threw out his IV-taped arm to balance himself, managing to pull the line hard enough to upset the IV stand and monitor completely. It toppled over with a painful clatter. He looked over at it stupidly.

"Oh," he managed, tongue feeling foreign. 

Then the nurse materialised beside him and pushed him back to the pillow, dodging his heavy arms with ease. The nurse righted the IV rack, and held Sherlock down as he groped blindly to his side and looked around, eyes wild and worried.

"John," Sherlock slurred, because that should explain everything, shouldn't it? Except it didn't.

"What?" The nurse asked, his eyes uncomprehending. 

"John, where's John," Sherlock not so much asked as insisted. "John. _John Wats'n_." Oh, look, there went another syllable. Or was it a letter? He couldn't tell. John would know. "Where's John?"

"I'm sorry, who are you talking about? You don't mean the m -- "

"John. I need to talk to him about syllables."

"You don't mean the man who brought you in, do you? Short, grey-blond hair -- "

"Yes, him, John. _John_." Sherlock tried to fix the nurse with his best insistent glare, though he suspected he was too cross-eyed to pull it off completely.

"-- knife wound?"

Sherlock stopped breathing. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Apparently ceasing to breathe when one has been strangled, nearly to death, causes an irritating to-do: a lot of fussing from doctors and having oxygen masks waved menacingly in front of one's face being among the most irksome repercussions. Sherlock spent the better part of an hour trying to convince the doctor (not _his_ doctor) that no, his throat doesn't feel swollen, no he's not in imminent danger of choking to death, and please will someone tell him where John is already? Does he know where Sherlock is? Will he be here soon? He's not hurt, is he? How stupid can they all be, not to tell him where John is? What sort of people do they let run hospitals these days? (Please, will they tell Sherlock where John is? Is he okay? Is he --- is John... John's not dead, is he? Please say he's not dead. _Please_. Because if he is, then it’s Sherlock’s fault, because he fucked up and the knife was intended for Sherlock, anyway, and then Sherlock might never stop hating himself for it.)

Eventually an orderly seemed to take pity on him and went to call administration. Sherlock scoffed; he didn't need anyone's pity. He shut up all the same, hoping that he wouldn't irritate his helpful orderly enough to sever that vital line of communication. The nurse was checking Sherlock's vitals, as he'd been doing nonstop for the last twenty minutes, when the orderly returned. 

"Your friend, the one who brought you in Sunday night, is in ICU. He's got a nasty stab wound in the lower back and a concussion, and it sounds like he had a bad case of shock. He collapsed right after he brought you in, you know, having apparently run several blocks carrying you."

Sherlock took a sharp breath, painful against his raw throat. 

"Will he recover?"

The orderly looked away for the briefest of seconds, and then turned her eyes back to him. "They don't know. He's not doing so well, but there's still time."

That, Sherlock thought, was worse than the definitive answer he'd been dreading, as there was still hope.

 _Hope_ was a sentiment, and sentiment always led to disaster.

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

It was barely an hour after Sherlock had been asked if there was anyone he wanted to contact that DI Lestrade bypassed normal visiting hours and tore into the ward in search of him. He found Sherlock leaning against the slightly raised head of the bed, in the process of tearing a paper cup into careful rectangular strips and arranging the pieces in a circle on his lap. The alternative was ripping apart his stitches, but Sherlock knew that'd be a bad idea. John would be annoyed, and he'd tell him off, and Sherlock would ignore him and continue to pick until John covered every incision with a bandage that itched and wouldn't be taken off for weeks. 

John might appreciate seeing that Sherlock had finally changed, even a little bit.

Ah, hope again. Damnable _hope._

In the world of fact, far from that of sentiment, Lestrade was in the middle of the room, looking angry and frustrated to the point of premature hair loss. He hadn't slept at all.

"You --" the policeman started, "you -- utter, complete _berk_. Do you realise -- do you even _realise_ what -- I was sending people into the sewers, into the Thames, looking for your dead and mutilated _bodies_. Your poor landlady was having a fit; she reported you as missi -- "

"Sir," Sherlock's informative orderly poked her head around the door, "please, don't shout at the patients, or you'll have to leave. You're already not supposed to be here as it is."

Sherlock was too tired to smirk at Lestrade's cowed expression. Watching the DI sit down in his peripheral vision, he looked back to his shredded paper cup, and with a frustrated motion swept the pieces onto the floor. He glared at Lestrade, because Sherlock wanted to glare at someone and the DI was as good a victim as any. Lestrade's face was in his hands; Sherlock anticipated more long-suffering beration.

"You are going to cost me my job one day," was the unexpected admission in place of it.

"Do you mind? It's an awfully boring job anyway."

_"Sherlock."_

"What?"

"Sherlock, you and John disappeared completely for three days. You're both bloody mental and I'm not even supposed to be working with you, let alone making sure you're not beaten to pulpy _death_ in an alley somewhere. You can't just fall off the face of the planet like that! What the hell were you even _doing?_ I thought we were still working that trophy-wife case, that Garner bloke -- " 

Sherlock sighed, rubbed his eyes with his IV-taped hand. "We _are,_ Lestrade. Sir Damery's evidence against him was insufficient, and I have my own contacts. You remember Shinwell Johnson?" Lestrade scowled at the memory of Sherlock's less savoury days, but Sherlock went on in fatigued obliviousness. "Evidently Garner still keeps tabs on Kate Winter's activities, as he would upon any of his surviving girlfriends. He warned me off of seeking any information from her, and he made good on his threats."

"He sent men to attack you? On your way back from... wherever you were?"

"I assume so. I have enemies, but who else would've been so eager to kill me before I could contact you with what I'd just found?"

"About that: they said you didn't have your phones? Or any identification?"

A sigh. "John protested, but agreed that theft was likely in that neighbourhood, and having identification could prove irksome if we were caught by Garner's allies; I didn't think he'd have us assaulted by trained hit men and sent to hospital. I should have. He _did_ tell me he would." 

"Bloody hell." Lestrade's head was in his hands again, fingers raking through his hair. He looked more exhausted than he had in a long time. Sherlock anticipated and dreaded his next question.

"How's John?"

Sherlock's face was blank. "Stabbed."

Lestrade looked up, taken aback. "Jesus..."

Sherlock looked to the black window, face still a mask. 

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

 

The drugs made Sherlock drowsy; he took the opportunity to sleep through the entire next day, because there was nothing to do while awake anyway. There were too many knife-edged and sun-beamed _feelings_ to be dealt while lucid; while sleeping, omnipotent blackness prevailed over his all-too-human worries. He could have nightmares, of course, ones that set the heart monitors screaming and brought his nurse to his side; he'd rather have formless diaphanous terrors than stone-solid finite realities. He welcomed the nightmares, and the drugs that followed them, with an extremely sentimental sort of relief.

_Idiot._

He woke in the early evening to the routine hubbub in the corridor as evening meals were served. He listened: the old woman next door was receiving some sort of broth, judging by the faint sloshing sounds generated by the orderly's gait; the young motor biker through the other wall, with severe burns on his sides, was given something more solid but was helped to sit up to consume it. He heard clinking metal, an upset styrofoam cup. His neighbours each had visitors: the motor biker had a husband, the old woman a daughter and three grandchildren (a girl and a boy and a quiet, unidentified third child, still young enough for a pram). The biker's husband had a heavy, fit tread, but moved with lethargy: inadequate sleep, brought about by stress. The unidentified grandchild cried out suddenly -- it was a boy -- and the other two were bickering and the old woman hadn't the heart (sentiment again; silly) to tell them to get out and let her sleep in silence. Then there was a moment of blessed quiet, but it was still punctuated by sensation: fabric rustling as the orderlies and nurses bustled back and forth, and the jangle of their keys, and the slow beeping of the city of monitors and cords and displays and _noise_ that crawled all around him like some corded, tentacled monster with a thousand and one and all together far too many eyes -- 

He pressed his eyes closed. He wanted to cover his ears, too, but that seemed an especially juvenile gesture. He settled for turning onto his side, ignoring the pain, and burying his face into his pillow in a manner of deepest ennui. No-one was in the room to see it. His frustration only augmented, with something much more painful hitched to its side, riding like a parasite that kept him from thinking properly.

Soon someone brought him food, as well; he gave it a judgemental glance, ignored it.

He slept again late into the night, when, quite suddenly, a phone rang. _His_ phone, apparently.

On the night table next to his bed there was an ancient telephone, connected to the landline and still equipped with a corkscrewed cord (did these things even exist anymore?) and a multitude of cryptic blinking lights. It was ringing. Desirous of solving this newest mystery, he flung out an arm and grabbed it, pulling both the handset and the port into his lap.

"Hello?" Why was his voice tremulous?

"Hey, Sh'rlock." It was John.

There was about three seconds of absolutely dead silence. The time stretched out, second-particles barely daring to drift, before them. The ward was dark as sleep. The phone's little blinking light was green as life. 

"... John?" 

"Yeah."

_"John?"_

"Mm, got it right the first time."

"I -- John. Hello. Hello, John."

"Hey. You okay?"

"...Yes. You?"

"Dunno yet. Can't feel much."

Sherlock laughed, a little breathlessly. "And you worry about _me_ on drugs, John."

John huffed a laugh; it sounded painful. "You're funnier when I'm high. Less 'nnoying." 

Sherlock smiled almost in spite of himself. "Tired?"

"Yeah."

"Is someone with you?"

"Mm-hmm," John sounded on the edge of sleep again. "Nurse."

"Tell -- tell your nurse to call me. Updates on your... situation. Please."

"He says... keep ‘im posted," John murmured, with difficulty, to the nurse. The nurse must have nodded, for John turned his waning attention back to Sherlock on the line, three floors above him and gripping the handset so hard the aged manila plastic was cracking. "Sherl.. 'm glad -- 'm glad you're okay."

Sherlock turned his face away, even though John couldn't see it. 

"The same," was his muttered reply.

John didn't respond. The nurse's voice came through instead and told him, quietly, that John was back asleep; she promised to make sure Sherlock was kept up-to-date. Then she hung up.

A flake of plastic snapped off in Sherlock's grip. 

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Though he asked and asked again, he was not allowed to see John. He obtained John's phone number, but was quickly barred from calling for fear of waking him with the near-incessant ringing Sherlock put his phone through. John didn't call again. Finally, after a third day of "We hear he's doing well, now please sit back down or you'll pull your stitches", John's nurse called: John was being moved out of intensive care, though visiting was still restricted to family. It was probably a good thing that it was, for Sherlock might have crawled across the ward and down the stairs if he thought he'd be allowed into John's room. Instead, he waited, and many valiant paper cups were sacrificed to the cause. He was soon able to walk, though not very far, and there was talk of releasing him next week, if he kept improving. He knew that he'd have access to no information upon John from outside; he wondered if gnawing off his stitches would serve as adequate reason to remain. But then that’d be more than a bit Not Good.

On John's third day outside of ICU, two Good Things happened. The first Good Thing was that John called again and was able to talk, albeit tiredly, for upwards of forty-five minutes, much to Sherlock's surprise. John's previous record was about fifteen, the first day he was out of ICU, and that had been peppered with long pauses while John caught his breath. The Good Call ended quickly, when John's nurse appeared and glowered at the time spent talking to the deranged pest on the next floor, and their good-byes were hasty, but Sherlock cared little. All he wanted now was to see the man with his own eyes, check for himself that what he was being told was true, and then he'd be content to go home and await John's return, well and whole.

The second Good Thing was that Mrs Hudson paid him a surprise visit. 

Sherlock tried and failed to hide a smile as he watched his landlady edge her way through the door, laden with three plastic bags, two large flowery tote monstrosities and her handbag. She hardly stopped to set the lot down before her arms opened wide in an intended embrace. 

"Sherlock, dear, how are you?" she fussed as she swooped upon him, arms around him practically crushing him to her bosom. He didn't resist the embrace, but he didn't outwardly reciprocate it, either; he let his head fall against her breast and sighed, hands in his lap sitting still for the first time since he'd woken a week ago. She ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes. She smelled of a new perfume; for once, he liked it. There was something warm about it that he found comforting.

"Are they taking good care of you, dear? Are you getting enough to eat?" she asked as she sat on the edge of his bed and pulled him closer.

"More than enough," he drawled, words only slightly muffled by the fabric of her dress. The dress was brightly-coloured paisley; she must have bought it in the '60s. Mrs Hudson was a thing unto herself.

"Are you sure? You look all thin and peaky."

"The hospital gown doesn't fit properly, and I'm unwell; I think both are to be expected. You're too worried."

"How can't I be worried, what with you two off doing God-knows-what and you forgetting to eat all the time and Americans running about waving guns at people? I can hardly stand it sometimes. You know, if _I_ was your mother -- "

"If you _were_ my mother."

" -- if I were your mother, I'd have lost my head years ago. I don't know how she managed it."

"I had a brother, too. You've only got one of me."

"Yes, and I wouldn't want another. You and John are enough. Anyway, I brought you some pyjamas" -- Sherlock frowned at his hospital-gown-excuse's demise -- "and your computer. And mobile. I think that's all you need, isn't it?"

"You brought pyjamas, my laptop, and phone?" He looked up at her. How did she think of these things? He'd never have thought of them; he wasn't sure if that fact bothered him. She turned away from him to retrieve her flowery bags from the chair. "... Is that what all of those bags are for?"

"Ooh, no, I got some shopping on my way. You know, I can never remember if John likes Twinings best or not, and he gets so tetchy about his tea sometimes..." Sherlock pulled out the contents of her bags, and deposited the clothes and laptop on the rolling table by his bedside. Mrs Hudson pulled him back towards her, and this time he snaked his arms around her waist, because she let him. "By the way, how is John? When I asked they said I couldn't see him and I'm so worried..." she asked. 

"He was in intensive care for several days. He's doing better, and he called me today, but I think his visitors are still restricted to family. I keep asking. They won't let me see him."

Mrs Hudson made an affronted noise. " _'Family'!_ He's only got that sister of his! Like _she's_ going to come see him in hospital, the drunken bint." Sherlock blinked at sweet Mrs Hudson's suddenly coarse vernacular. Then sweet Mrs Hudson was back with a vengeance. "What's the point of that silly rule, anyway? Oh, poor thing, he must be so _lonely_. Do you think they'll let us see him soon?"

"Don't know. It sounds to _me_ like he's been fit for visitors for days now." 

"Oh the poor _dear_. I've been so worried about him. Both of you, you silly sods." She held him ever tighter. "I worry about you boys so much." 

He made a vague sound, eyes tight shut and face pressed to her breast. He made a token attempt at comfort, if it could be called that. "You know, we don't need for you to w--"

"Sherlock, stop."

He nodded, changed the subject. "You're wearing new perfume: 'Winter Holly', isn't it? Do you want me to tell you wh--"

"No, dear."

"Okay." Sherlock relaxed against her. She absently stroked the hair at the back of his head, giving the curls a little tug. He felt his hands rubbing her back with hesitation; without warning, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head, where it was leaning on her bosom like an infant's between suckles.

He smiled stupidly, and wasn't the least bit embarrassed about it.

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Two days before Sherlock was released, he finally got to see John. He called Mrs Hudson, and she met him at his room just when he was being helped into a wheelchair. She was incredibly worried, but he brushed it off; he could walk, but he needed crutches and his doctors decided that it was easier for him to go for a brief visit downstairs in a wheelchair; the thought of falling on crutches and having to stay even longer in this noisy, boring place was hateful to Sherlock, so he accepted the deal. Still, he was glad when Mrs Hudson waved the orderly away and pushed Sherlock to the elevator herself. He didn't like people he didn't trust looming and fussing over him, especially when he'd lost so much of his usual height.

"Is this it?" Mrs Hudson asked in front of a beige door, marked as room number 412-5. Sherlock couldn't tell if it was trepidation or excitement that set her voice shivering. 

"This is it." Sherlock reached forward and pushed it open. 

"John, dear?" Mrs Hudson called as she pushed Sherlock inside. 

"Mrs -- Mrs Hudson? What're you doing here?" John's voice asked from behind a green curtain; he groaned, and pushed the curtain aside with an effort. John beamed when he saw them. "Jesus, I hadn't expected you to come. It's great to see you. Sherlock, are you all right to be out of bed?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I am. They're releasing me Thursday. The more important question is: how are you?"

"Fine," John said; Sherlock frowned. John was still ashen, and he wasn't as much sitting up as he was propped up, but his smile was wide and bright as he outstretched his arms to receive Mrs Hudson's massive hug. He patted her back with as much vigour as he could muster; the IV he still had impeded him somewhat, and he was as much leaning on her as he was embracing her. He hadn't stopped smiling. Sherlock found himself smiling back. "Sherlock, I'm _fine._ "

"Yes, okay," Sherlock acquiesced, believing him. 

"We missed you," Mrs Hudson cooed into John's hair, which she curiously hadn't ruffled; she settled for massaging his back with warm palms. "Sherlock here was worrying himself to death about you."

"I was not!" Sherlock sounded so thoroughly infantile that his voice jumped an octave on the last syllable. He frowned at it.

"You were too, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson rejoined. John watched them with warm, sleepy amusement. "You must have been so lonely, dear," she said to John. 

"Mm? Oh, n-- not really. There's always people around checking on you."

"No, no, I mean-- "

John smiled at Sherlock, who sat awkwardly in his wheelchair. They shared a secret vein of amusement at Mrs Hudson's concern, and something, too, very much like affection. "Mrs Hudson, I'm okay. You're very kind to have stopped by."

"Hmpf, _'kind'_. I just wanted to make sure my boys hadn't been chopped into pieces, that was all! I was so worried about both of you; you two really do get up to too much dangerous stuff out there, you really do.” Her voice wavered, and cracked. “One day, you know, one day you're going to go out and you'll never come back and I'll never know what happened to you, and then what'll it be? You'll just leave me like that? You just don't take care of yourselves-- "

"I'm sorry," Sherlock surprised himself by saying. He meant it, too. John didn't say anything, but looked even paler than he had a moment before. 

"You're both completely stupid, you know that?"

"Yeah, Sherlock never lets me forget," John quipped, eyes shut. Sherlock frowned.

"You two have to promise me to not keep being thick, because what will I do if you get yourselves killed doing god-knows-what? You have to promise me to stay safe, please. I can't go calling the police on you every weekend."

Sherlock's lip bent up. "No, don't suppose you can. We're sorry."

Mrs Hudson sighed, frantic energy spent. "I just get so worried. Didn't your mothers ever teach you not to go out alone at night? What kind of mothers did you two have, anyway, to not have a shred of common sense..." she trailed off, holding John against her. He was leaning on her heavily, and she rocked him; Sherlock wondered if she even noticed she was doing it. She sniffled. 

John bent his tired and tousled head against his landlady's breast, much as Sherlock had done; seeing the pose from the outside now, he felt distinctly like his presence was an intrusion. He saw between them some sacred link, some secret forged bond of love between caretaker and charge, or even between parent and child: he didn't remember much about art, but he wondered if this scene was much like those of the Virgin Mary and her infant son, of a relationship holy in its power and transcendent in its longevity; the sort of bond people continued to ponder when the participants had long turned to dust. He wondered if he'd ever belong to something that strong. He wondered if he ought to leave the room. 

Then John outstretched his hand for Sherlock, and pulled Sherlock closer by his elbow. His hand stayed there even as Mrs Hudson threw her other arm around Sherlock's neck, holding him within that embrace as well. Their position could not have been more uncomfortable, but there was a moment where they three were pressed together, warm and soft and close and breath mingling, and not one of them wanted to let go. 

Mrs Hudson whispered something almost imperceptible; it sounded quite like “You’re my boys, and I don’t want to lose you.” But then again, it could have been anything.

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Two weeks later, all three of them were seated at 221B's sitting-room table; Mrs Hudson had cooked John a welcome-home dinner, though it was as much a when-will-you-eat-young-man-you-look-like-a-twig dinner for Sherlock, too, and a I-know-neither-of-you-can-do-much-right-now-so-I'll-just-help-you-out-but-remember-that-I'm-not-your-housekeeper dinner for both convalescents. The dinner included a meat pie. Sherlock frowned at the overgenerous portion he'd been given, and at Mrs Hudson's reproving gaze, but he ate all of it anyway. 

Here, the three of them together near the brightly dark windows, something felt right. Sherlock's crutches lay beside his chair, and John still sported a prominent bandage on his temple, but one shared glance was all they needed to know that both felt happy. They ate in relative silence, having little to say; Mrs Hudson did most of the talking. As they finished, Sherlock detailed some of the loose ends he'd been having Lestrade tie up over the Garner case. John raised a brow: he knew full well that Sherlock was only pretending that the case was closed for Mrs Hudson's benefit. He fixed Sherlock with a look, and Sherlock looked away, a little embarrassed, the message received: they were _actually_ to hand the rest of this one over to Lestrade, they'd only just gotten out of hospital and were in no state to break into houses or throw acid in people's faces, as Miss Winter had suggested. John doubted the completeness of Sherlock's acquiescence, though; as soon as Mrs Hudson went back to the kitchen for the teapot, he leaned forward.

"I know you technically didn't promise her anything, but how can you think of going back out there again after what she said? Just try to respect her feelings, please; it's been tough for all of us recently. We're going to have a hard enough time staying alive for her sake in the long-run without you limping right now into another fight you're bound to lose. Let's not be stupid for once."

Sherlock's gaze dropped. 

"Shit, she's coming back," John warned, already leaning back, afraid of being caught being naughty.

"I won't be stupid again, I promise."

John turned back to him. "That's not reassuring."

"For her sake, and for yours, I _promise_ not to be stupid again. Okay?"

John bit his lip, knowing that there was a layer of darkness to Sherlock's words that he'd come to hate one day. But it was possible that Sherlock wasn't even aware of it, for his eyes shone with nothing but sincerity. Sincerity, and obvious regret for having ignored the threats that put them through all of this. From Sherlock, these things were of immense worth, and seeing them strengthened the thing inside John that quailed at the forbidding undercurrents in Sherlock's tone. John was faithful in adversity, and he found that he trusted Sherlock, until the end of all things, to not get everything wrong.

Then Mrs Hudson was back with a flowery teapot, and cups were distributed, and she’d remembered to get them fresh milk, and it was just the three of them safe within 221 Baker Street again.


End file.
